


This is Me

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, Grace Bonds, M/M, Soulchecking, Souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:43:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12001362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: It’s a stupid thought, Dean knows. But given the amount of downtime they’ve had recently, and how many sleepless nights he’s spent alone in his room staring at the ceiling, his mind can’t help but wander there on occasion, a gnat that won’t leave him alone.Castiel, I want you to touch my soul.





	This is Me

It’s a stupid thought, Dean knows. But given the amount of downtime they’ve had recently, and how many sleepless nights he’s spent alone in his room staring at the ceiling, his mind can’t help but wander there on occasion, a gnat that won’t leave him alone.

And the only reason it’s on his mind—at least, the only reason he can figure—is because Castiel is living with them now, or at least lingering around. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, doesn’t do much other than sit in the library or wander the halls like a lost soul aimlessly searching for hope. Granted, he does spend some of his time with Sam, but most of his waking hours are spent as Dean’s shadow. And for once, Dean doesn’t mind; Castiel just being there is enough to calm his nerves, no matter what he’s doing or where or when.

This last week, Castiel’s gotten into cooking, and if he keeps at the rate he’s going, Dean will be ten pounds heavier by the end of the month. Butter will kill him before a knife to the heart does.

Lying in bed for the seventh night in a row, rolled onto his side and staring aimlessly at the glow of the laptop cord on his desk, Dean thinks. Considers it, rolls over the words on his tongue— _Castiel, I want you to touch my soul_. The more he ponders it, though, the antsier he grows, the more his hands twitch and his body vibrates. He wants to ask, wants to see if Castiel would even dare try—but no matter the context, it doesn’t make sense.

The last Castiel touched a soul, Dean watched Sam bite into a belt while Castiel shoved his fist into his chest, just to see if he had one. Before that, Dean can’t remember; the memories blur after a while, years vanishing with time. He never can recall the important things, though. Always the minute details, like how Castiel’s arms looked with his sleeves rolled up, dexterous fingers gliding smoothly across leather.

Maybe it’s selfish, he thinks, rolling onto his back; maybe he just wants Castiel to touch him again, and this is the way to do it. Make up a lie about how his soul hurts, or how he feels like it’s missing, and Castiel will coming running to his aid. Not exactly a lie; Hell had taken its toll over the years, and after a life spent on the road, living out of cheap motel rooms and on even cheaper food, maybe a part of him is actually damaged and warped after all. That’s a route he doesn’t want to wander down, debating whether or not he’s worthy of being in the presence of Angels with such a blasphemous touch.

The clock on the nightstand reads 1:57. Outside his door, Dean hears nothing but the hum of the heater and the foundation settling. A faucet drips in the bathroom; ice falls into the tray inside the freezer. In the midst of the monotonousness of it, bare feet smack against concrete floors, and a shadow passes by his room, only to stop and wait.

Not Sam. Sam wouldn’t stand outside of his door at nearly two in the morning; he’d just barge in and start shouting about something. A monster would’ve killed him before he even woke up. It has to be Castiel, then. Castiel is watching him; Castiel is turning the doorknob, and stepping inside, dressed in sweatpants and a loose shirt with equally atrocious bedhead. At least someone’s resting, then.

“Cas,” Dean slurs. Reaching over to flip on the lamp, he watches Castiel just stand there, shifting his weight between his feet. He doesn’t really look anywhere, but Dean knows where his attention is, where it always is. Stars prick behind sleep-tired eyes when he rubs them, vision no longer blurry but still skewed. “What’re you doing?”

“It’s too quiet,” Castiel breathes. Dean can empathize; he’s been thinking about buying a box fan lately, or running an ambient station on his laptop, something to create white noise and drown out the thoughts that linger in the shadows. “I heard your heartbeat.”

Dean pats the mattress to his right. Only after calling his name does Castiel come, the bedding molding around him as he sits, a perfect indentation. “I can’t sleep,” Dean sighs, lowering himself back onto the bed. Just to keep close, he rolls onto his side, his head nearly pressing into Castiel’s hip. “Restless, I guess.”

“You have too much energy,” Castiel suggests; Dean nods and closes his eyes. “I thought you wanted to take time off, though.”

“I do,” Dean mumbles. A month ago, a break sounded like the best idea in the world, especially after nearly fracturing his ankle and Sam’s back injury. But now, lying in bed with only his thoughts to keep him company, all he wants to do is run a marathon or write a book or just spend all day in the gun range, something to keep him occupied. He can only read the same books so many times. “I do, and it’s been great, but…”

There are no answers for what he’s feeling, and part of him knows Castiel understands. Ever since Dean has known him, Castiel has never taken a day off or even time for himself, his entire existence caught up in what he can do for other people and not himself. Selflessness, possibly. That’s what Dean hopes it is, and not a general lack of self-care.

Whatever it is, Castiel’s hand reassures him, nimble fingers carding through his hair, smoothing down errant strands. Heat flushes Dean’s cheeks, just from how nice it is to feel Castiel close to him once again, no longer at arm’s length. Warm, solid, real.

“Can you touch my soul?” Dean says in haste, eyes pinched shut.

He can’t bear to see Castiel’s reaction, to see what could be scorn or disapproval. If it weren’t for Castiel’s hand on his nape, Dean would’ve thought he wasn't there at all. No door click, though. Just the warmth of his touch and the breath that blows against his hair, cooling heated skin.

After a while, Castiel lets out a long, haggard sigh. “I’d hurt you,” he whispers, just as quiet as the night. “And you’re not hurting, there’s no need—”

“I just…” Dean cuts him off, then stops, barely resisting the urge to burrow his head under the pillows and never come out. Embarrassing doesn’t cover it; nobody asks an Angel to fondle them just because they want it, but Dean wants. Deep in his soul, he wants everything Castiel can give him. “I know there’s nothing you can do, but… Can you, just this once?”

Castiel narrows his eyes, head cocked to the side. “But why?” he asks, rearranging himself to face Dean with his legs crossed. “What you’re asking can cause irreparable damage, and I’ve never…”

“You’ve done it before,” Dean says, somewhat of an accusation; if anything, Castiel looks away, pale. “You… held my soul, or whatever, and I don’t remember it hurting.”

“You don’t remember it at all,” Castiel clarifies.

“Touché,” Dean snorts. Rolling onto his back, he looks up at Castiel, at the shadows dancing under his cheeks and the dull light in his eyes. Living a stationary life isn’t doing him any favors, as well. “Would you believe me if I said I needed it?”

Slowly, Castiel blinks, like he can’t believe that Dean would want anything other than this. “You don’t require Grace,” he says, despondent and every bit self-deprecating; Dean doesn’t want to hear that tone again. “There’s nothing I could give you. You don’t need—”

“But I want it.”

Dean sits up in a rush, only vaguely remembering that he’s naked save for his briefs; not like Castiel cares, regardless. He brushes his hand over Castiel’s shoulder, over the tight curve of muscle down to his bicep, exposed and soft under his fingers, tantalizingly real. Castiel has dragged him from the depths of Hell, cradled him against his chest and shielded him from the flames—yet, this is the closest, Dean feels, that they’ve ever been. Faintly, Castiel smells of sugar and lavender, and Dean can feel his pulse beating wildly against his thumb.

 _Human_ , Dean thinks; even with Grace, Castiel is more human than any stranger he’s ever known.

“I want it,” Dean sighs, letting his hand drop. “Just you, alright? I don’t… If it hurts, we can stop, but I just… I miss you, man. The real you, y’know?”

Shame burns through his body, heating his collar; he might as well have confessed to every secret he’s ever had, all shoved away and hidden deep. Even with the scant lighting, he feels like Castiel can see him, all of him, down to his atoms. For all Dean knows, he probably can.

Uncalloused fingers caress Dean’s face, a thumb swiping under his eye; unabashed, he falls into it, sighing through his nose. “Dean,” Castiel breathes; he leans in, lips close to Dean’s ear. “Has anyone ever told you how reckless you are?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “A time or two.”

“I can’t ensure your safety,” Castiel continues. Slowly, he shifts off the bed and rifles through Dean’s dresser drawers, coming back with a well-worn leather belt. “I can heal you if you bite through, but I can’t repair your soul if you move.”

“I know, I know.” Dean falls back onto the mattress, his lower half still covered by the blankets when Castiel makes his way over, straddling his waist. “If I grab your knee, will you tap out?”

“Of course,” Castiel assures. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Willingly, Dean takes the leather between his teeth and shudders, head tilted back into the pillows. Honestly, he expected Castiel to fight more, or at least refuse a few times before giving in. Now, with his palm pressed to the center of Dean’s chest, he moves with skill and takes one of Dean’s hands with his free one, squeezing tight. “Don’t look away,” Castiel orders, and Dean nods, the only thing he can do.

He asked for this—now he has to survive.

The second Castiel pushes in, past the wall of blood and bone and ribs, Dean feels… nothing. No spasms, no blinding pain, no flashbacks to Hell or anywhere in between. All he sees is blinding white and Castiel’s hand buried in his chest, his fingers skirting the very edge of what he thinks is his soul, or his intestines. Every inch of skin feels alive and thriving, while something buzzes in the back of his brain, morphing to a whisper soon after.

 _Castiel_ , he realizes, eyes slipping closed; tears spill down his face, and the belt slides free, rolling off onto the mattress. “Cas,” Dean moans—actually moans, head thrown back and all—and squeezes Castiel’s hand, knuckles white. “Cas—holy _shit_ —”

“It doesn’t hurt?” Castiel asks, equally winded. Through tear-filled eyes, Dean watches him, watches the wet tracks pouring down Castiel’s chin and the sudden flush in his cheeks, and shakes his head. “It shouldn’t be like this,” he says, just as his Grace dips into outermost edges of Dean’s soul.

Dean almost howls, but not from pain. Through the blinding wave of euphoria, he holds on and gasps, sucking in air like he’s drowning. Given the circumstances, he might as well be. For the first time in his life, Dean feels at home, awash in a sense of comfort he can’t even begin to fathom, tingling all the way to his bones.

For one blissful minute, there’s nothing but the sound of his own breathing and Castiel’s heartbeat, and the soft brush of Grace against his soul, delving in. Every cracked corner, every fissure, every black spot is eased and soothed, all guided by Castiel’s touch, knitting him together once again, at least for now.

“I knew you,” Castiel whispers; only then does Dean realize their foreheads are pressed together and Castiel is leaning over him, eyes welling over onto Dean’s cheeks. Dean squeezes their hands together, suddenly enrapt in the light bathing Castiel’s face, erasing age lines and dark shadows, alight and youthful again. “I knew you, but not like this.”

“Cas…” Dean breathes; he reaches up with his free hand, covering Castiel’s nape.

“You fought me in Hell,” Castiel mourns. His Grace slides deeper, and Dean barely has the forethought to keep from shouting. “You refused to leave, because you thought you belonged there. And I held you as I flew, and I watched you soften, and you fell into me like you loved me. I saw you at your worst, and now…” He swallows, lips falling to Dean’s cheek. “Am I selfish to want this too?”

“You’re not,” Dean laughs. He pulls Castiel down for a kiss, and light floods him, all frigid flames and scalding hands across every inch of skin; every color he can imagine and some he can’t name flash under his eyelids, and for the briefest of seconds, he swears he feels feathers glide across his arms, over his face, covering his eyes.

 _This is Castiel_ , he thinks just as Castiel captures his lower lip. _This is the Angel that saved me._

It stops just as it started, unhurried and painless. Gradually, Castiel slides his hand free, and with it, the light of Dean’s soul extinguishes behind his ribs once again, invisible and contained. The sudden absence leaves Dean feeling bereft and cold, equally as alone as he had been starting out, but this time, with Castiel’s hand in his, their foreheads pressed together. Castiel’s knees bracketing Dean’s hips, Castiel’s breath mingling with his own.

For a while, they just breathe together, Castiel’s hands cupping Dean’s cheeks and Dean’s resting over the soft skin of Castiel’s nape; idly, Dean strokes his fingers up Castiel’s hairline, brushing away the sweat beading there, both from the heater and proximity, and the overwhelming realization of what they just did. Dean kissed him—Dean kissed Castiel in a fit of passion while Castiel held his _soul_.

Right now, crying is the least surprising thing he could be doing. “Hey,” Castiel whispers against his cheek, kissing away the tears. “You’re okay, Dean. You’re okay.”

“I know,” Dean nods. He exhales a shuddering breath, afterwards covering his eyes. In reality, he knows he’s fine—it’s just coming to terms with it that gnaws at him, begins to fester in his chest. “I know, but… I didn’t think it’d be like that.”

Castiel hums and nuzzles his neck, nose warm against Dean’s throat. “Like what?”

Dean sighs. “It felt… good. Not like I was getting my stomach ripped out through my nose.”

“I don’t have an explanation for it,” Castiel says after a too-long pause. Leaning up, he pulls himself back onto the other half of the mattress, collapsing onto his back. That’s just what Dean wants to hear, that Castiel has no clue what he’s doing. “Perhaps when I rescued you, we became… familiar with one another. You no longer recognize me as a threat, not like you did back then.”

It makes sense, really; Dean has known Castiel for years now, long enough for his initial preconceptions to subside and for Castiel to become like family to him, and maybe even more, based on their kiss. Almost in disbelief, Dean touches his fingers to his lips, earning a look from Castiel. “Has this ever happened before? Y’know, with other humans?”

Castiel sighs through his nose, eyes to the ceiling. “If it has, it was solely for information. Human souls are… impossibly fragile, and Angels can break them with just the slightest pressure. But you.” Rolling over, Castiel urges Dean to face him, their bare feet brushing against one another. No distance, barely any room for Dean to breathe—all he can see is Castiel’s blown pupils and reddened cheeks, lips parted in an invitation Dean so desperately wants to take. “You’re strong, Dean.” A warm hand rests on Dean’s hip, afterwards fisting the waistband of his briefs; Castiel wets his lips, leaning in closer. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re—”

Dean doesn’t let him finish his sentence, too caught up in the heat between them to care what else he has to say. A hand to the back of Castiel’s head, Dean draws him in for another kiss, this one simply to shut Castiel up. It ends up stealing his breath, the sheer understanding that he’s in bed with Castiel, that they’re kissing for the third time ever, and that Castiel just touched him where no other creature ever could, all coalescing into the sole emotion that flows through him, that has him shoving Castiel onto his back and slotting their legs together.

Love. This is _love_. This is the closest to love that he’s ever felt, and no one can take that from him. Castiel could die, or leave him for heaven, or the fire between them could dwindle, and Dean would still love him, until the day they bury him in a cold grave with a nondescript headstone. And for the rest of his days, he wants Castiel to stand at his side, to fill the void in his chest and guide him to better decisions and even better days, and he hopes with all of his heart that Castiel will stay as well.

All he’s ever wanted is for Castiel to stay.

Hands come up to cover Dean’s ears, skilled fingers trailing behind his ears to his nape, where they press, languid and easy. “Dean,” Castiel gasps, breaking away; his lips shine pink in the lamplight, his neck beginning to dye red. He’s beautiful, and everything Dean has ever wanted. “Your soul—”

“I know,” Dean sighs into another kiss. Their noses brush when he pulls back, and Dean closes his eyes, the sight of Castiel’s eyes too surreal for him to handle. “I’m… happy. I can feel it.” He slides one of Castiel’s hands to his chest, over where his heart beats wildly, pounding against his ribs. The reality of it makes him laugh, hysterically so; he hides his face in Castiel’s neck, too embarrassed to do much else. “Is it weird, that I don’t feel broken anymore?”

Castiel smiles into his hair, breath rustling mussed strands. “You never were broken,” he whispers, and Dean warms with it, all the way to his heart. “And you’ll never be. I’ll never let you fail.”

Their fourth kiss is wet with tears—Dean wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Randy Travis song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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